


One to Remember

by blackfirewolf



Series: run-on sentences [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Found Family, Homelessness, M/M, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of non-consensual touching, mentions of torture, nothing is explicit tho i promise, run-on sentence hell, the end is really tender cuz im a soft bitch lol, tw warnings for:, wingman stanley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-15 00:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20609624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfirewolf/pseuds/blackfirewolf
Summary: "Old Man McGucket knew he’d forgotten things. He got gaps in his mind a lot; things that he knew should be there, but weren’t. Sometimes they were just small things, non-important things, but other times it was big things – like how to properly respond to a situation, or what a certain word meant, or even, scarily enough, who he was and if he was even real."-----------Or, a whole story of how Fiddleford McGucket finds himself, recovers, and begins to love again.





	One to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> I would say that it's surprising that it took me more than three years to finish this, but that would be a lie lmao. Anyway, the first part of this was written immediately following Not One to Forget; around writing about Weirdmageddon, tho, I got hit with a bad case of writer's block and it was only this summer that I hauled this out and decided to finish it. Hope it's better structured than the last! 
> 
> Shout-out to Jay, who listened to me bitch and moan about this for the past few years; Simone, who endured me stressing at the last minute about structuring some of the trickier paragraphs; and finally, Tallykale, whose amazing fics are the reason I even know this ship exists. Y'all are awesome and I owe you!

Old Man McGucket knew he’d forgotten things.

He got gaps in his mind a lot; things that he knew should be there, but weren’t. Sometimes they were just small things, non-important things, but other times it was big things – like how to properly respond to a situation, or what a certain word meant, or even, scarily enough, who he was and if he was even _real_. In all honestly, he was treated like a ghost often enough that sometimes he wasn’t too sure if what was going on around him was actually happening (and that scared him, a lot, but mostly it hurt to see people’s eyes skip over him like he didn’t exist). But being treated like a ghost was sometimes better, he’d concede.

(_It was worse when the townsfolks laughed at him or looked at him with pitying, second-hand embarrassment; when the teenagers threw taunts his way, knowing that in his stuttering anger he wouldn’t be able to defend himself; but, mostly, it was the way Tate let his eyes slide over him in shame, like he couldn’t BELIEVE he was the son of the town-nut, and yelled at him to leave so as to not drive off any more customers._)

He knew he’d forgotten things, because sometimes he _remembered_. No, that wasn’t the right word for it... Muscle-memory, perhaps? His eyes and hands recognizing something, even if his mind stayed as blank and smooth as a whiteboard. Like sometimes, when he had some spare pocket-change (maybe he got it from odd-jobs, maybe he got it from pitying townsfolks, maybe he just found it on the ground; he often couldn’t remember how he’d gotten money but that didn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things), he’d go up to Lazy Susan’s diner and order coffee. Straight black. It would make his lip curl, and half the time he’d leave without finishing it, already forgetting what had prompted him to waste a dollar on such a thing.

Other times, it tasted like the best thing he’d ever had, and it reminded him of cinnamon and the scent of pine (although he didn’t know how those things could be related).

And sometimes, McGucket felt flashes of the man he must have been before he’d been found dazed and confused on the steps of the Gravity Falls Museum of History. Because even if his mind usually floated in a white emptiness, his hands could take a pile of scrap metal and invent something entirely new without any planning beforehand. Or his chin would itch and he’d tug on his beard anxiously, like it shouldn’t be there, like he’d always been clean-shaven before, in another time. And gentle thoughts would sometimes drift to him, lucid and wondering, and he could say to himself in a voice not screeching with a Southern accent, “_I reckon I miss sleepin’ next to someone, mmm_…” and then he’d squint at the night sky and briefly consider WHY he’d think something like that… but such moments usually passed quickly, and everything would fade again.

Oh yes, those must be flashes of who Ol’ Man McGucket used to be. And whoever that man had been, he must have liked gardening, because each time McGucket passed the patch of blooming forget-me-nots just outside the dump, he’d pause and crouch by them, gently stroking the soft petals and admiring the peacefulness of their blue. Heck, sometimes (if the town was going through a dry patch) he’d fill his battered hat with lake water and wring the lingering moisture out onto the parched flowers, just to see them survive until the chilly Autumn wind forced them to death.

It was in those actions that McGucket knew, somewhere bone-deep, that he’d once been a gentle, passive, and kind man; a man that didn’t tread on flowers growing out of the sidewalk and who must have been lovable enough for someone to sleep next to once (_of course_ – he must have slept next to his ex-wife at some point, even loved her, although for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name or face now, and somehow the thought of her didn’t match up with the flashes of fingers wrapped around his or the gentle kisses ghosting on his neck, but – it _must_ have been her, because who else could it have been?).

McGucket wasn’t that person anymore. He wasn’t someone who was admired or even loved. He was a man that scared children with his voice, that built death-robots and giant mechanical sea-monsters that drove off innocent families just trying to relax at the lake, that slept in a shed made out of scraps and survived off of the diner’s dumpster. Over the years, something had hardened inside him. It came from being homeless, he supposed – the winter months when his stomach was hollow and his thoughts froze on a skipping record of _warm sheets, warm hands, warm body pressed to his, warm warm warm meant loved, and you’re so cold and alone_. Maybe it was hard to be gentle when his years without shoes had hardened callouses on his feet so thick that he could walk over any surface now without pain or pause, and he reckoned that he could smash a glass bottle over them, and even if the shards pierced the skin, he wouldn’t be able to feel it (but he never did test that, because if it _did_ break the skin he wouldn’t have the supplies or money to treat the wounds, and he’d probably get an infection and die, and some part of him screamed and reared back like an animal at the thought of death and another part cried and cried _not until we know, not until we remember, then we can go_). Maybe, once, he’d been a good man.

McGucket didn’t think he was, anymore.

But parts of who he’d been lingered. When a raccoon invaded his shed and had her babies underneath one of the car engines close to where he slept, he didn’t try and remove her. He felt his heart twist pleasantly at the sight of her little babies crawling all over her like mini shadows, and he patiently left tiny bits of food and nest-material until the mother trusted him. It was amazing, the feeling that bloomed in his empty belly when the animal nestled on his chest, her babies squeaking and surrounding him, all cuddled in his arms (_warm warm warm_) and for the first time in years he didn’t jolt awake from nightmares he forgot as soon as he opened his eyes. It was like he was the father, after that, gently watching over the small brood and making sure they were healthy, and he started absentmindedly calling the mother raccoon his Raccoon Wife; a private joke between the two of them, a bubble over a family that loved him unconditionally.

Of course, leaving the junkyard shattered that illusion. People would stare at him when he walked past with a raccoon on his shoulder, flinch backwards when the critter turned its beady eyes on them and curled a tail contentedly around the town-nut. And McGucket saw their judgement when he used the term “Raccoon Wife,” but this was one thing he would not let sting him. He’d spent a lot of time and energy trying to be liked, or at the very least accepted by the townsfolk, and after all these years they still hadn’t (_and he would admit, he’d still keep trying, because he craved being a normal part of their interlocked society_), but he’d be _damned_ if he let them wear away the one piece of happiness he’d had since this whole mess began.

It was towards the end of the year, when the baby raccoons were half-grown, that the townsfolks decided to zero in on the weakness McGucket had presented. Well, in Gravity Falls’ defense, it HAD just been a group of young teenagers messing around, but that didn’t make the situation any better in McGucket’s eyes. After all, everyone had seen him at one point or time walking with a raccoon around his neck or talking to them like they were people – everybody knew his connection to the creatures. Either way, McGucket would remember the small squeals of one of the baby raccoon’s pain as a poorly-aimed, empty can of Pit Cola hit its target and cut the poor thing’s soft flesh. Heck, maybe the young kids hadn’t been meaning to intentionally hurt the animal; but that didn’t matter, they’d still hit the innocent critter, and they deserved–! 

That was when McGucket learned something new – he may have been a passive man in a past life, but he’d had a fierce temper towards anything or anyone that harmed someone he loved (and he should have guessed that, considering how brutally he ached at Tate’s rejection, and how he still wanted to protect his son even though his boy was growing into his thirties).

The town’s cops ended up being called, and McGucket probably would have been hauled off to jail for threatening a group of kids and waving around a “weapon” (it was a sharp piece of scrap metal) if Tate hadn’t shown up and sorted it all out. When it was over, the teens left with scared looks on their faces (one was crying, actually), the cops eyed him with disgust and disapproval (and that stung, because he was supposed to be a kind, gentle man), and Tate didn’t speak a word to him – just left (and that stung most of all, but it was a numbed wound now, something so used to the pain that it hardly registered anymore, just whispering bitterly, _what did you expect?_).

The baby raccoon was fine, and the litter grew up healthy and strong thanks to McGucket and Raccoon Wife, and when they left McGucket would admit to crying. Raccoon Wife stayed, however; a solid presence curled on his stomach in the dark; a grumpy, nipping lump of fur that relaxed as soon as she was set on his shoulder; someone to sit and watch interestedly as he chattered and messed with his metal scraps. And sometimes, the tiniest of the litter (_the raccoon with the thin scar across her shoulder_) would visit, chittering and determined to perch in the rim of his hat like she’d done as a baby, and McGucket always saved carrot sticks for them. He never saw any of the other baby raccoons, though, so he couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t been eaten by any of the wild things back in the woods or if they had just moved off into farther territory, but he tried not worry and assured himself they were fine and happy and had their own families to take care of now.

McGucket assured himself of a lot of things. He didn’t believe most of them, and sometimes paranoia swept through him like a wave and he’d crouch beneath one of the junkyard’s cars until his muscles were snapped with tension and his brain filled with foggy, jumbled, high-pitched laughter.

(_His life was a mess, he didn’t have a life, he should climb the water-tower or those unnatural cliffs and leap, than maybe he’d be free_, but something was important and he’d forgotten it and that voice was screeching _no no no can’t go until you remember!!!)_

So he curled up like a dog and breathed through his nose and started writing down little facts that flashed to him so that he wouldn’t forget, because as soon as these things came to him they were gone again like darting fish in the lake’s shallows, and who knew how much he could forget?

(_Maybe years later he’d wake up and not remember the last thirty years and be right back where he started on the Museum steps and that thought terrified him like nothing else, that one day his slipping memory would plummet back down to nothing_.)

It was a hindrance to sharpen the blunt pencils he scavenged, and the metal-coil notebook from the corner store had water splotches and little space for his trembling hands to write crooked handwriting, but he determinedly kept at it. And before long, the notes went from random words and phrases that did little to jog his memory later on, to coherent sentences devoted to what he deemed the most important things to remember.

_(Note #1: Raccoon Wife is a friend. So is lil’ Baby Raccoon. Carrot sticks are their favourites.) _

_(Note #2: You are Fiddleford H. McGucket. That is your name, tho some folks just call ya Ol’ Man McGucket. You were a good, gentle man once.)_

_(Note #3: Please don’t forget Tate please don’t forget Tate he is your son and you love him and he loves you even if he looks away and pretends he doesn’t know you and sometimes he’ll leave soup for you in the winter or more blankets and you don’t discuss that but he loves you and you love him.) _

Thirty years. It took thirty years of homelessness, of being chased out of stores and shops and his son’s life, of hardening his soles and hands, of sleeping on the cold hard ground, of forgetting to eat and how to speak and what to think, and –

Something deep inside him, bone-deep, reared up like the father he was and spoke in a voice lucid as the sky above: _protect those kids_. Just like he’d protected Tate, just like those baby raccoons; it was his job, a parent’s job, an adult’s job. Fury rose in his chest at the sight of them tied together, ropes chaffing their baby flesh as they struggled, all of them hysterical and yelling out their secrets, one of them on the verge of tears, and that instinct to fight gnashed its fangs and swallowed him in one gulp, finally overtaking the cowardice and fear of exposure that had guided him all those years. 

“I raided the mining display for weapons. Now fight like a hillbilly, fellers!”

McGucket wondered if it was a bit odd that he felt proud of the group of children he’d only really known since the beginning of summer, and only then, he’d only briefly seen them around or interacted with them (like the Gobblewonker incident, and he’d apologize properly for that later). He decided very quickly, however, as the boy (Dipper was it?) grappled with the leader of the Blind Eye Society and yelled out his refusal to hand over the memory tube because “_That memory belongs to McGucket!_” that it didn’t matter if it was weird, because these children had shown more respect, _more courage_, than McGucket had seen in thirty years. And he’d be damned if he saw them get hurt over some youthful curiosity and their stubborn insistence in defending _him_.

The memory gun’s wave felt slightly warm, like a gentle blast of summer breeze (_some other wavelengths had felt cool, right?_). It rippled through his body, like tendrils reaching, reaching, but there was nothing for them to corrupt. McGucket faintly heard the boy, Dipper, say in a hushed, choked voice, “McGucket, you took a bullet for me,” and he wanted to turn, smile at the child, and tell him that bullets didn’t scare him (because he’d learned there were worst things to be scared of). Then the bald man with the strange tattoos aimed again and another wave rushed over him, and this time he shuddered a little, but mostly because he’d realized that the sensation was eerily familiar, but all thinking was washed out with Dipper’s frantic yell of, “Oh my gosh, are you ok?!”

And McGucket laughed. “Ok as I’ll ever be!”

(_And wasn’t that the gosh darn truth._)

The bald man looked scared, almost. “Why… isn’t… this… working?!” Each wave of energy from the gun, each shocked exclamation, seemed to flow right through McGucket, like electricity, and McGucket knew what electricity felt like because he’d shocked himself many times while building things and tearing them back apart – except the memory-gun didn’t send tingling pain through him like the shocks usually did, it just left a wound in his chest that whispered about guilt and heartbreak and forgetting.

“Hit me with your best shot, Baldy.” His voice hadn’t been this controlled yet out-of-control in thirty years. “But my mind’s been gone for thirty-odd years. You can’t break what’s already broken!”

(_You can’t break. What’s already. Broken._)

Later, when he had a hat filled with tips and all the members of the Blind Eye Society had been dispatched, McGucket suddenly felt very afraid. It was funny; he’d been scared a lot that night, for both himself and the children, but now when he was faced with something he’d wanted for years he wasn’t sure he could go through with it.

“I’m not so sure. What if I don’t like what I see?”

(_What if who he thought he was wasn’t right? What if all these years he’d been striving to be something he wasn’t? What if, and this part scared him the most, what if he hadn’t been any better than he was now?_)

“We’ve come all this way. Go on.” There was that girl, Mabel, and her voice was so soft and encouraging, and that pride and fondness bloomed in his chest again as he glanced at the group that had (for some reason) fought for him.

_(Note #32: The kids. Soos is the big man-child with buck teeth and loves that there pop music. Wendy is the red-headed gal, and she’s not as laid-back as she appears, but is sure decent in defending her friends. Dipper and Mabel are twins and they’re visitors, and they’re sweet and brave and they helped you. Don’t forget ‘em. Don’t forget how they all fought for you. Don’t. Please_.)

Static. A tall, gentle young man in his twenties with haunted eyes and rumpled clothes. A terrible, terrible mistake. Someone else, someone else, _someone else_. Test subject one: a name he hadn’t associated with himself in years. HE WAS THE ONE, HE’D BEEN THE FOUNDER OF THE CULT, TO HELP, AND SOMEHOW IT’D ALL SPUN OUT OF HIS CONTROL. Falling apart, he was falling apart at the seams, like the cracked webs of his accent or the flaking plant lost in the background of the camera (_and that hurt that hurt why hadn’t he remembered to water it when he always remembered the forget-me-nots by the junkyard gate_). Gibberish, like cracked glass and sandpaper from his throat, like _pressure_ and _can’t escape_, vomited on fingers caging his _eyes eyes eyes_, ALWAYS WATCHING HIM, and that explained the NIGHTMARES and LAUGHTER and PARANOIA and–

Calm. That storm was over.

“Oh, McGucket, I’m so sorry…” he heard Mabel whisper despairingly, and his heart twisted at the note of pure grief there (_because she genuinely cared, and he wanted to cry, because she cared, she cared, they all cared_).

“Aw hush.” He smiled instead of crying the happy, relieved tears that wanted to escape. “You kids helped me get my memories back, just like you said.”

“But did you want those memories back?” And oh, the girl was so sweet, so innocent, and McGucket felt that warmth in his chest again, because someone was _concerned _about him, and when was the last time that had happened?

“After all these years,” he began (_and it sure felt like a beginning, didn’t it?_), “I finally know who I am. Maybe I messed up in the past, but now that I seen what happened, I can begin to put myself together again.”

(_Note #33: Mistakes can be corrected, with time. And maybe a ‘hole lotta patience, too._)

And he found he believed that, he truly did. Fiddleford had been a kind, gentle man that had messed up in the past, the one responsible for his state now, but McGucket didn’t resent his younger self. He’d seen the way his younger self’s hands had shook when he’d erased his memory that first time; the way his eyes were red-rimmed (surely he hadn’t slept in ages); the way his voice had that familiar, almost unidentifiable hitch to it that meant he’d been crying – no, _sobbing_ – not long before the camera had been switched on. McGucket found he understood, even if the memories of what had traumatized his younger self were still lost. At the time, he’d believed he was doing the right thing, even if that something was erasing all his memories to the point of insanity. But now, now – he’d spent thirty years lonely and just surviving and he was ready to face whatever young Fiddleford hadn’t had the courage to fight.

McGucket had some rememberin’ to do.

And something had shifted since he’d seen that tape of his younger self. His mind was still a whiteboard, but now when he wrote something on it, it didn’t slide off or randomly get wiped away like it had never existed, leaving behind little marks that were impossible to decipher into the original writing. Now the words stayed. They could be shifted, or faded, or overwritten, but they were still there, and McGucket revelled in that feeling of control. It had its downsides, of course; now he sometimes remembered those nightmares of his (_eyes and tendrils and darkness and raining blood and fire_) and he couldn’t say that everything he remembered was pleasant (_someone had stalked him up the hall as he tried to sleep alone in a cold bed_), but he’d take it all, good or bad, because he was piecing himself back together.

Looking through that Author’s journal had helped as well _(“It’s all so familiar. It’s almost like I can remember…”_) and Dipper giving him the remains of the laptop with his name engraved in it – that had led the children to him in the first place – also gave him a jolt (_he’d made this, even if he couldn’t remember_).

And when he finally succeeded in activating it, when the numbers flashed red across the cracked screen, his mind flooded with yellow (_not like sunflowers or gold, but like bile and too-hot sunshine and menacing cat-eyes_) and the pure, unfiltered panic that went through him was enough to make him want to drown himself in the lake (_because even if the blueness of water was deeper than forget-me-nots, it was still comforting, wasn’t it?_).

(_But then again, he couldn’t handle the pressure of water crushing his ribs and lips, forcing his breath away, taking away his choices, it reminded him too much of–_).

When the ground started shaking, he lost the little bit of control he’d been clinging too. He tried to justify to himself that he’d TRIED to warn Dipper and his sister and all their friends, but it didn’t stop the wallowing shame of running away while they were still out there, doomed to face the END TIMES. Raccoon Wife screeched at the sudden rough treatment of being crammed into a sack with some supplies and important scraps, and McGucket didn’t have time to apologize or search for Baby Raccoon (_he would not cry, he would not cry_), because something BAD was coming, and he couldn’t REMEMBER what it was, but it didn’t MATTER, he just had to _GET AWAY_.

He wouldn’t remember what happened after that.

All McGucket knew that when he finally emerged into the daylight after the whole earth had reversed itself, things looked fine. Maybe not good-fine, since half the town was upside-down and his scrap shed had mostly collapsed inwards on itself, but things were mostly-fine since nobody was dead and things were, well… normal. No END TIMES. No fire and blood raining down. Just some damaged buildings and confused townsfolk. So he clutched Raccoon Wife to his chest (who must have been a comfort during his descent into oblivious panic, because even if he had some scratches on his arms, she was strangely calm as he hugged her to himself) and cautiously re-entered the world of the living.

Nobody had noticed he was gone and nobody noticed him return.

He was suspicious. He was afraid. But he settled back into the junkyard and tried to ignore the pulsing anxiety in his veins and the paranoia determined to seep into his bones. And he slowly remembered more and more. Scratchy memories played backwards, like rewinding a VCR tape with all the pieces cut out and glued in the wrong order, like a movie without a timeline. Tate’s look of joy at catching a baseball tossed to him; the day he got his college acceptance letter and the family-bash thrown in his honor; strumming his banjo late at night in the cold silence of his garage, leaning so far back in his chair that it was like standing on tip-toes; crying quietly in a corner of the schoolyard after being teased because of his name and silly accent; the smell of pine and beer-hushed voices fogging up his dorm room window; the sound of someone’s voice, deep and pleasant, and it must have been “the Author” because they were asking him to come to Gravity Falls to do SOMETHING _(“Well that’s mathematically feasible, I reckon!”_). There was never anything very solid, and never enough to accurately grasp what was rattling him so much, but it was enough that each day he felt a bit saner – and wasn’t that a feelin’!

Things were getting better. Each day ticking to the end of the summer was peaceful (well, as peaceful as Gravity Falls could be) and the atmosphere held that drowsy heaviness to it that told him the warm weather would extend itself that year, and that meant less cold nights hoping his fingers and toes didn’t get frostbite and more clear nights watching the stars and forget-me-nots sway ever so slightly on a backdrop of twilight. That was a good sign – made his life easier, that was for sure – and he supposed his guard was slowly dropping as the END TIMES his body was _sure_ was coming just… didn’t come.

Of course, that’s when the other shoe decided to drop.

McGucket wasn’t a religious man anymore, nor was he very spiritual in any sense. He relied on mathematics, understood the universe through the whirring of gears and the grease on his hands. Life itself was a blueprint sketched out in curving lines, erased pencil marks, and scrawled measurements over ruler imprints. But McGucket thought, even if there wasn’t a God (or Gods) staring down on their suffering, the Devil itself existed on Earth, and it was in the form of a yellow triangle with a top hat, bowtie, and a single, all-seeing eye.

(Which… sounded very stupid, even to himself, yet was no less the truth.)

He didn’t black out like he had done when the earth reversed itself, when he was so sure of the END TIMES that were indeed upon them now. It was a relief (to be in control, to not succumb to that void of forgetting) but part of him considered that it might have been easier to blackout (_so he didn’t have to be so aware of the screaming and blood raining from the sky, from the cuts on his feet as he ran for his life, from the all-engulfing terror as demons flooded their odd little town_).

In the end, he found himself seeking shelter in the iconic giftshop of the Mystery Shack. It was a place that quite a few of the townsfolks (and… others) had wound up as well, and it was a sort of comfort, then, to just have other people close by. People – living beings – that were not frozen into stone or warped to some Devil’s vile amusements. Others like him that were scared and didn’t know where else to go or what to do next.

Stan Pines was also, surprisingly, a rather comforting character, even if he was outwardly gruff and, quite frankly, straight-up rude half the time. He had things in control, at least; rationing food, keeping everyone from getting too scared but also making sure they weren’t too relaxed, silently keeping on eye on everything. And though he didn’t say anything, everyday he’d venture out of the shack without a word, with only a baseball bat to defend himself from whatever was out there, and nobody had to ask to know he was looking for his missing nephews, as well as his two weird employees – all of which had disappeared without a trace since the “Weirdmageddon” had began. McGucket prayed the kids had escaped that demon’s wrath, but there was no way to be sure, and each night Pines returned empty-handed with a hardened expression that warned everyone to back off and not to ask him any questions.

On the third day, he returned with someone, but it wasn’t Dipper or Mabel – it was the little blonde rich girl, Pacifica. She was snotty as always and complained quite loudly at the ratty spare clothes she was given, but McGucket could see the tear marks on her cheeks and the way her loud voice wobbled ever so slightly. She was young, after all, and from what he could tell, she had been alone since the apocalypse began, as her parents had been some of the first to be captured, if he remembered correctly.

(_Note #46: Pacifica is the blonde girl. She’s snotty and stuck-up and her family was never kind to you or people like you. But she’s just a child. And children are ‘sposed to be protected.) _

Pines didn’t say anything – just snarked that that was all she was getting and to stop being a whiny brat, then he covered her shoulders with one of the last blankets they had and shot a look at the other two girls – Candy and Grenda – until they took the hint and sat next to her. Clearly they were all a bit uncomfortable with each other, but seemed to quickly come to an understanding that this was an unique situation, and so they simply sat together, sharing warmth and quietly murmuring back and forth to fill the silence. Later, McGucket watched Pines crouch down next to the girls (his knees crunching loudly in protest) and show them card tricks – and later still, he crouched again to draw the blankets more securely over the trio sleeping in a huddled pile, like frightened puppies. There was something incredibly revealing in his face at that moment – a worry McGucket imagined was replicated on his own face when he thought of Tate and what could have befallen him, with an undercurrent of pure misery that was easy to miss if McGucket hadn’t been looking into it so much. He understood. He was worried for the other kids as well, but he knew it would never match up to the man slumped in the corner spooning cold, canned meat into his mouth.

At the end of the fourth day, when footsteps creaked on the porch and the hyper-vigilance drilled into all of them by Pines had their group tensed and ready to attack, McGucket had a close-up look at the man’s face, at the lines carved into his forehead and the scars peeking out from under the torn sleeves of his suit. It was a look, he realized, that he recognized in his own reflection, and he only had time to think _oh_, before the door was slammed open and both sides bellowed their war cries; before the recognition of who was opposite them sunk in, that is.

The yell of “Grunkle Stan!” was nearly drowned by Pines’ responding cry of “KIDS!” and then the man had an armful of twins, followed closely by the heavier loads of two teenagers attaching themselves to their employer’s side. Their voices were light and teasing, full of joy at being reunited, but McGucket was standing close enough to see the tears in their eyes, the bruises and scraps over their cheeks, the tremble in each of their voices. He saw the way Pines hugged them just a little too close, a little too tight, and McGucket wished more than anything, in that moment, that he knew where his own boy was and if he was alright.

Seeing them, though… it was enough for the time being.

(_It felt like hope_.)

The younger set of twins were just as he remembered, full of boundless fire and optimism, and their words of encouragement made the plans he’d been idly sketching (as there wasn’t much to do during the apocalypse, and if he simply sat around with only his worry and fear to accompany his brain, he was sure he’d go fully nuts all over again) seem less like a pipedream and more like a reality. They could do that. They could take advantage of the Mystery Shack’s weird science-y magic immunity, and take the fight to the devil themselves! It meant risk and hard work, meant tearing down walls and building them back up, but McGucket had long since decided that he was tired of being scared, that if there was a chance to save the kids and townsfolks and his son, wherever he was, then he would do it, because they had little left to lose at that point.

_(Note #49: Fight because it is the right thing to do. Fight for yourself, and if ya can’t do that, fight for others. They at the least deserve it, even if ya don’t.)_

The little voice of _oh _bubbled up again as he oversaw the construction, when he took a spare moment to observe the horrified expression spread across Pines’ face, the way he helplessly and fruitlessly tried to protest their work. McGucket knew he’d seen that face before, in the reflection of himself; a man used to watching his life crumble before his eyes and desperate to cling to any dangling thread that might remain. He knew that Pines was like him, that his hardened soles and wary heart didn’t just come from age, but from years of struggle and loneliness and now he could only watch as they dismantled the home he’d worked so hard to build, and McGucket had never gotten the chance to start rebuilding his lost home until now, but still, it _hurt_ and he _understood_.

(_He may not have had scars over his arms and lines etched into his forehead, but his bones still rattled with the aftershocks he’d given himself throughout the years._)

That night, gathered around the bonfire and kept warm by Mabel’s sweaters, McGucket felt calmness seep through his veins. None of them smelled very good, since there were no showers during the apocalypse, and it was especially bad after all the labour they’d done in building the Mystery Shack Magic-Science-Fighter-Robot (which, despite Soos’ best efforts, did not have gun-swords, although McGucket conceded that those would indeed be handy), and their meal was the same brown meaty sludge it had been for more than half a week now, but it didn’t matter, because morale was high and whatever the outcome of the next day, at least they had that moment to relax and spend time with each other.

McGucket didn’t sleep though, not even when the last gnome had dozed off. He knew it wasn’t smart, that he should rest so he could preform his best for the battle in the morning, but sleep evaded him nevertheless. He wasn’t tired, and hadn’t been since they’d started working on his plans; ever since they’d mentioned the object of their mission: Stanford Pines.

And McGucket wasn’t a fool. He knew that the Author held the key to the last buried secrets in his mind, and maybe that was why he had more energy than the time he’d chugged three pots of coffee while studying for finals, why he sat and kept the fire alive and watched the stars shift and fade in glitched patterns across the snow-globe of their sky as everyone else slept like the dead. Because maybe when he finally saw and heard the Author again, he’d finally remember what it was that he was missing and move on.

(_That thought stayed with him as everyone slowly woke up and got to work on the final touches of the Shack-Bot, the peacefulness of the night before shattered with the task looming before them. Because if he concentrated on the possibility of fully moving on, of remembering that last crucial puzzle-piece and completely restoring his sanity, then that meant he was thinking about a future – and if he believed he had a future to think about, then he could convince himself that they weren’t heading straight into a suicide mission. Thoughts like that were important._)

Later, McGucket wouldn’t remember a lot of the fight. Not in the sense that he forgot; but rather that everything was a blur of adrenaline and shouting and terror and determination and in the chaos of all that, details were hard to come by. It was knowing his creation had worked (and was working for _good_, for the first time ever) and that they all were so small and human beneath the might of monsters and demons, but still striving, still fighting, still _winning_. The worst part was staring up at the grotesque throne of human beings, feeling revulsion wash over him and bile creep up his throat, because there was something so much worse about recognizing faces within such a horror then it was to see (_everything and nothing)_ all at once, so much more concrete than (_black fog that swirled as if alive, fangs that seemed to burst from them with no apparent source, glimpses at) _raining blood and fire and_ (eyes, always the EYES, EYES, EYES). _

And then, he was looking at the man named Stanford Pines and watching the way he turned and stared at McGucket, both of them thirty years older in more than just appearance, and yet it was like that day back in their dorm room all over again (which is to say, it was all chaos and flinching and not knowing what to say in the face of insecurity, but offering a handshake anyway).

(It was foolish that he’d ever forgotten Stanford; more brought on by _wanting_ to forget than his misconduct with the memory gun. Because at one point, all McGucket had had was pain and fear and an aching so deep in his heart that death would have been a relief. But by forgetting all that, he’d forgotten the good, too. The hushed whispering late at night; the six-fingered hand in his own, squeezing a reassurance as they explored the space shuttle buried beneath Gravity Fall’s valley; the gravelly laughter at his enraged huff at finding his rubik’s cube messed up yet again; the smell of eggs and coffee and sawdust in his hair as he pressed his lips to the back of his neck, so warm and safe beneath the sheets. It was foolish that he had ever forgotten how much he loved the man and how much Stanford had loved him back.)

(Someone could say that it was odd that he only remembered now, staring at the man’s face, when his identical twin brother had resided no more than ten minutes away from McGucket for thirty years. But McGucket would tell that Someone that even if they shared the same physical characteristics, there was a clear difference between the Pines brothers, in a way that couldn’t be explained by logic or rationale. The Pines parents may have hated their children – or simply not cared enough – when naming the pair of twins Stan-FORD and Stan-LEY, but that was their mistake, because McGucket knew that similar-sounding names were little indication for the heart and soul of someone – and he would know, because he’d fallen in and out of love with Stanford.)

(_Note #50: You loved Stanford Pines.) _

“Fiddleford,” he said, “I – I haven’t seen you since we… parted ways. You must hate me.”

There was so much to unpack there, but all McGucket could focus on was his own name, the one that he hadn’t heard in so, so long. Not Ol’ Man McGucket. Not the Town Kook. Not Possum Breath. But _Fiddleford_. The name that had gotten him teased in grade school and that his Mama had hollered to the heavens when she was calling for him and the name that had been whispered into his lips like a prayer at church, low and tender, by the man across from him.

And Fiddleford was speaking before he fully registered it, the smile on his face feeling like tears falling down his cheeks. “I’ve tried forgettin’… maybe I should try forgiving. Come here, old friend.”

Stanford wasn’t a very good hugger. For one thing, he was much taller and bulkier than Fiddleford. For another, he knew Stanford had never been the biggest fan of physical contact, even before he had disappeared for thirty years or just been tortured, if the burns around his neck and wrists were any indication. And yet – Fiddleford could feel the way he melted into his touch, the relief, the minute trembles from both anxiety and the remnants of electricity coursing through his limbs. For just a brief moment, things faded away, and it was only them, and Fiddleford knew, very suddenly, that even thirty years too late, he wanted to fix what they had broken.

(_It took courage to face things head-on, and it took courage to rip open old wounds, and it took courage to accept part of the blame for how things went wrong. But he’d said he wanted to forgive, and that wasn’t just for Stanford – it was also for himself. It was a thought that believed in a future, even though they were currently in the middle of a suicide mission, and the emotions exploding in his chest were simultaneously that of comfort and anxiety and pure unfiltered exhilaration_.)

Then they broke apart – and that was fine, because the fight wasn’t over yet, and if they won there would be time later on to discuss what they wanted to do (and lord, Fiddleford hoped that Stanford wanted that, too), and it struck him very suddenly and inexplicitly as they separated from their hug that everything…

(_Everything would be alright_.)

When things were said and done, after their Plan A had dwindled all the way down to Plan Z and losing had crept too close for comfort only to be chased off at the last second by the Pines family, Fiddleford would need to take a quiet moment by himself afterwards to ponder how things had gone so wrong and yet how they had still triumphed in the end, and how that meant he did indeed have to plan for his future. He found there wasn’t much on that List For The Future; just small things, like selling off his blueprints and getting enough money to buy a house (alright, it was a mansion, but Fiddleford was used to the wide-openness of the junkyard, and he was sure that in time he could fill the place to its rafters with his raccoon friends and whatever new projects jumped to mind), and he definitely helped in repairing the lingering damage around Gravity Falls, most specifically the Mystery Shack, as it had been both instrumental in their victory and also housed the heroes of Gravity Falls, _but most importantly_, on the very top of his List For The Future, was his determination to reconnect with people in a way his broken mind had been unable to beforehand.

Reconnecting with Tate had been easy, because despite all the years of hurt between them, just hearing his son apologize and hug him a touch too tight had been enough to heal whatever rift existed between them. After all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t caused his son a fair share of trouble throughout the years; he couldn’t even say he’d really been there as a father when for the majority of Tate’s life he’d barely even remembered who he was. Tate had even offered help before, and whether out of buried pride or just plain craziness, Fiddleford had never accepted, and he couldn’t blame his son for slowly resigning himself to the reality that maybe his father was past saving (and how, despite all that, Fiddleford had still found neatly folded blankets and thermos of steaming soup outside his shelter in the junkyard, and he would know, even without words, that Tate still loved him even if he had given up on him).

Somehow, he didn’t think reconnecting with Stanford Pines would be as easy.

It was a bit of a waiting game, at that point. Everyone in town knew the sacrifice Stanley Pines had given to save them, but while the majority believed he’d since regained his full memory, Fiddleford was close enough to the inner circle to know that that information was a bit rose-tinted. The man may have remembered who his family was, but there was still a lot missing – and according to Dipper, it would probably take time for everything to come back, just like with Fiddleford. Between that, securing his own living situation, and helping Gravity Falls return to (mostly) normal, Fiddleford had little time to see Stanford, let alone sit down and talk with him.

So he waited.

It took a week for things to settle, and wandering into the kitchen after the younger Pines’ birthday party, Fiddleford felt himself smile. There was confetti scattered everywhere, that he suspected would be a challenge to clean when combined with all the glitter, streamers, and deflated balloons left behind from the celebration; although, anyone who spent long periods of time around Mabel (a.k.a. her family) probably had a better chance than most in getting glitter out of the floorboards, he figured.

The setting sun cast golden shadows down the scruffy paint of the kitchen, pooling around the platters of picked-over leftovers and half-empty glasses of forgotten soda, the dishes haphazardly stacked on the counters, and it was all so wonderfully domestic and familiar that Fiddleford had to resist the urge to start washing plates in the sink. He’d missed it, he realized. Even though he’d only just started to remember his past life, he’d still missed those simple things, like making dinner and washing dishes and pondering how long he could put off chores before the house became a complete disaster. He’d missed having a place to call his own, and he’d especially missed being able to share it with someone else. And even if the Mystery Shack wasn’t his, it _had_ been, once upon a time.

It was nice to be reminded.

“Oh, uh, hey,” came a voice, and he startled, realizing that Stanley Pines was standing in the entryway, holding a can of Pitt Cola and looking a lot more relaxed than usual without his fez hat and suit on. “Didn’t see ya there. Need anything?”

“No, no,” Fiddleford reassured, “I was just hoping to talk to Stanford, is all.”

Stanley’s brows furrowed in concentration. It was another side effect of the memory-gun; the trouble organizing thoughts and articulating them, which required a lot more time and energy before speaking. “He’s, uh… oh! Down in the basement, cleaning up his lab or somethin’ – want me to go get him for ya?”

“Much appreciated,” Fiddleford said, and watched as Stanley rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, muttering something about not breaking stuff while he was gone. 

Chuckling to himself, Fiddleford turned back to the kitchen, feeling the smile grow across his face as he took in the obvious signs of life that had seeped into the walls. Even with fresh coats of paint and the prevalent scent of sawdust in the air, the Mystery Shack was more than just wood and nails; it had been rebuilt and repaired with love and tenderness, as if it was a living, breathing creature, and Fiddleford could feel that warmth hovering like dust-motes in the air. 

Fiddleford felt his smile freeze when he looked up. On the windowsill above the table, almost hidden behind the dying rays of the setting sun, was a small terracotta pot. It was covered in multiple chips and cracks, evidence that it had put up with quite a bit of abuse throughout the years, but each had been sealed carefully, so that only thin veins scarred the pot’s surface. The sides were covered with golden stars and rainbow cat stickers that obviously had come out of Mabel’s extensive crafting collection; similarly, Fiddleford would bet money that the carefully placed popsicle-sticks with notes on growth, that were helping support the spout, had come from Dipper. But Fiddleford was more focused on the plant itself, at the handful of trembling blue flowers he remembered shattering all over the kitchen floor, the same type he’d felt compelled to water and nurture when he could barely take care of himself, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

“My brother says he’ll be up in a few minutes, the nerd. Mind waiting ‘round?” Stanley’s voice cut through his daze and Fiddleford blinked at the man, tearing his gaze away from the flowers.

“Hm? Ah, ya, I don’t mind,” he replied, but his voice sounded distant even to himself.

Stanley gave him a particular look; one that was calculating and weighed, as if the man was equally sizing him up and coming to a realization at the same time. Fiddleford thought _oh_, and wondered, very suddenly, if maybe Stanley recognized himself in Fiddleford as well.

(_Struggle recognized struggle, after all_.)

“Ya know,” Stanley drawled, “I’ve been rememberin’ a bit more recently – and I remember, once, when I was tearing this place apart looking for those damned journals, I came across an old box full of junk. Photos an’ stuff.”

Fiddleford’s mouth went dry. He remembered, distantly, the feeling of eyes up his back, the way his mother had somewhere along the line stopped asking him about getting back together with his wife and instead sent him a knitted blanket (big enough for two grown men) in secret one Christmas, the way his hand had twitched to hold that six-fingered hand above the sheets, but how in the end they’d always joked and laughed and only touched each other’s shoulders in short increments while in public. He remembered fear and secrecy even in the happiest moments of his life, and now Stanley was looking at him, expression nothing but a mask, and Fiddleford didn’t know if he should say something or just leave.

“Yeah…” Stanley said, and waved an idle hand at him, “probably the happiest I’ve ever seen my brother.” Fiddleford once again felt the air leave his lungs and he stood there helplessly as Stanley moved around him, studying the pot on the windowsill with a thoughtful quirk of his eyebrows. “Never really got why the nerd felt the need to keep the flowers around ‘til then; he was never really into gardening, ya know, but I guess ya both started in college, right? Guess he couldn’t stop after that.”

Stanley shot him a look, making brief eye contact again even though Fiddleford had yet to move from his frozen position. A small smile crept at the corners of his mouth as he took a sip from his drink. “I could never keep anythin’ alive for long – ‘til the kids came along, that is. Then they wouldn’t shut up about that dusty old pot and growin’ something, anything, and well…” Stanley gently pinched a green leaf between his fingers, the few flowers that had sprouted bobbing their heads as if in agreement. “They’re alive, at least,” Stanley finished, and this time the look he gave Fiddleford was anything but subtle.

A clang behind them both made Fiddleford’s head jerk, and without prompting, Stanley gave a long stretch (Fiddleford heard his back pop and crack) and a pretend yawn. Standing in the doorway, Stanford froze just like Fiddleford had done, immediately locking eyes with him.

(_Fiddleford felt his heart stutter when Stanford’s eyes skipped to where the cracked terracotta pot sat, his cheeks immediately flushing with colour_.)

“Well,” Stanley announced loudly, “I think I’ll head to bed. Try not to be too loud, you two.” Ignoring the startled stammer from his twin, Stanley swept from the room (although swagger might have been a more appropriate word, if a man pushing sixty could still “swagger” in the first place).

“Stanford…”

“Don’t listen to anything my brother might have said,” Stanford blurted out, which Fiddleford was a bit grateful for, since he had no idea what he wanted to say, anyway. Instead, the pure sibling-ness of it all made him burst out laughing, clutching his gut as he worked out his anxiety and fear and all the rest of his tangled, complicated emotions that had manifested in the presence of tiny blue flowers.

Stanford looked a bit baffled, but quietly chuckled along. “I haven’t seen you since the fight,” he said, voice much softer, and it helped temper the last of Fiddleford’s hysterical giggles.

“Ah, well,” he replied, “I didn’t wanna get in the way – lotta stuff happening and lots to do!”

Stanford’s hands twisted, folding behind his back in the same anxious way he’d done when he was young, and it was such a familiar gesture that Fiddleford found himself smiling again. “Perhaps,” Stanford argued, “but that’d hardly fair to you. I suppose… I owe you a lot, Fidds.”

Immediately he floundered, arms flexing in a way that told Fiddleford that he’d balled his hands into fists, and sweat sprung to his forehead, beading along a swath of grease that was smeared along his hairline. “I – I, mean, Fiddleford, or McGucket, if that’s what you’re going by, now? Uh…”

Without hesitation, Fiddleford stepped forward, laying an open palm over Stanford’s tense arm like he was a wild animal in need of taming. He felt the tightness there, just like when they’d hugged, and in a similar fashion, Stanford slowly relaxed at his touch, sinking into it like very rarely had he been so readily forgiven and accepted (and Fiddleford remembered he’d always been like that, and it filled him with grief to imagine that Stanford, even after all these years, still felt the need to surround his heart with barbed wire).

“It’s fine, Stanford. In truth, I reckon it’s somethin’ of a relief to hear that… it’s been a long time since someone’s called me that name.”

“Thirty years,” Stanford said quietly, and his arm unwound so he could lay a hand over where Fiddleford’s rested. His gaze was timid and cagey, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to make eye contact, and he was all nervous energy, shuffling feet, tension-flexed knuckles, glasses edging down his nose and tickling his grey-licked sideburns in a way that made Fiddleford lean forward, the memory of stubble-burn singing across his lips even if he knew it was much too early and they still had too much left unsaid before they could even consider being that close again, but _oh_, how Fiddleford longed for it. How he longed to love again.

(_And if Stanley Pines was a piece of enthusiastic propaganda looking to sell something, and Wendy was an independent fragment that didn’t need to explain itself, and Soos was an interrogative series of words ending with curling question marks, and the younger twins were a conversation overlapping with stars and exclamation marks and wonky grade-school grammar, than Stanford was STILL a run-on sentence, that went too far and too fast and could never be spoken all in one breath. But then again, Fiddleford had always been running on too, hadn’t he?_)

“It’s not too late,” Fiddleford asked, “is it?”

Stanford finally met his eyes, not a trace of yellow framing the irises. “Well…” he started, in a voice that suggested he was going to start listing statistics. Before he could, Fiddleford stopped him with another laugh, this one lighter but just as genuine.

“Darlin’, I think we can do just about anything at this point. Heck, we beat that triangle devil, didn’t we?”

Stanford grinned. “Ah, I see what you mean. About the names, that is. It has been a long, long time since someone has called me that.” Slowly, Stanford’s smile started to slip, worry ceasing a line over his forehead. Fiddleford felt the way his hands gripped tighter, as if he was scared Fiddleford would drift away once again. “Fidds, I want to, but… my brother…”

And ah, Fiddleford had been wondering when that had come up. Everyone, after all, had borne witness to the heartwarming announcement of the older twins heading out to sea and the ceremonious entrustment of the Mystery Shack to Soos for the time being.

“I don’t know much about the situation,” Fiddleford admitted. “Ya’ve never been the most forthcoming about ya family, especially your brother, and I know he’s been havin’ some difficulty after the memory-gun. But…” and here, Fiddleford gave that six-fingered hand an encouraging squeeze, “I’m not the only one who deserves some time.”

Fiddleford couldn’t completely read Stanford’s look, but he definitely recognized relief there. “Thank you, Fidds. I promise, I want this – us – and you deserve any answers you might have, but Stanley has given so much, and it’s time I gave back, I think. I need to leave and be with him. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be back.”

“The kids will be back here next summer,” Fiddleford chimed in, “and I swear I’m not goin’ anywhere either, Darlin’.” 

“Yes, and I’ve been working on a long-distance device so we can check in with the children, one that doesn’t need internet connection!” exclaimed Stanford. “Dipper has been most intrigued, and I hope to have the prototype finished before they leave. Any modification could be made by him on their end, if need be, but as long as I–”

Fiddleford closed his eyes, leaning forward and wrapping a loose hug around Stanford. He’d missed that most of all – not just the closeness and warmth of a fellow human being, but being close to someone intimately, feeling the vibrations as they rambled with happiness and passion and wanting nothing more than to just listen. And yes, there was work to do: things to talk about, and emotions to be expressed, and old wounds to be ripped open, but for the moment, Fiddleford existed in a world where love conquered and there were Plans For The Future being laid out. For now, he was holding the hand of a six-fingered man who had swept up the shattered shards of a terracotta pot and glued it back together before being lost between dimensions, a man who had kept reminders of a better time in his breast pocket, a man who had a brother devoted enough to spend thirty years of his life unravelling secrets and safeguarding them to save his twin, and a family that loved and loved and loved unceasingly and against all odds. For now, Fiddleford had hope.

_(Last note: There are things worth fearing in this world, but there are things worth loving, too. There are things, and people, worth remembering. And that’s the truth.)_

_(Don’t ya forget that.) _

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting in three years, so please review! I crave,, validation,,,
> 
> Otherwise, if y'all wanna chat, hmu on my [tumblr! ](http://blackfirewolf.tumblr.com/)


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